


The Massacre at Altlach

by autumnsnowfall



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anti-Social Personalities, Blood and Violence, Drama, Gen, Hints of Past Trauma, Mild Language, Permanently Unhinged, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, grey morality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-13 19:27:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29406915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autumnsnowfall/pseuds/autumnsnowfall
Summary: Every Witcher has a Path. One that weaves and winds through the mountains of time, each sewn into the sinew when the mutations take hold. It can take a man to solitude; Witchers who forgo the lust for coin to study and advance their intellect for the good of their kind. Others give in and turn into wanderers, doing as they were meant to. Slaying monsters for sustenance, their backs always turned on towns and villages.And the fringes of those were what every living thing feared. The ones who delighted in killing; Sociopaths, murderers, and the failed Witchers.Ones always associated with the School of the Cat.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 15





	The Massacre at Altlach

**Author's Note:**

> _”…[The Mages] were going to run a series of tests, including vivisection… Gezras was one of the first to be subjected to this research.”_ \- Gezras of Leyda Profile Tree (Polish Version).
> 
> Gotta love Gwent lore. I should have been done this earlier, but the Valentine's Gwent Event took over and I really like collecting cardbacks. Whoops.
> 
> **Pre-warning:** This fic contains graphic descriptions of violence, death, and mentions of trauma. Please proceed with caution.
> 
> \-----

It was always some backwater town.

Part of him understood. There was something about them that attracted all types of monsters. Villages and towns were always where the Hunt liked to prowl; These small clusters of civilization that hadn’t penetrated the wilderness around it, where any disruption wouldn’t be noticed for days and monsters still had power. The places that everyone liked to forget.

He’d ridden through towns taken by the Wild Hunt and monsters - places where the ground never recovered from being slick with blood. It was an atmosphere he understood as other Witchers did - where the air was stained with woodsmoke. These were the places where coin was given in desperation. Where the pleas were hysterical to those willing to help and questions weren’t asked.

Yet something told him his presence wasn’t going to be a welcome that night. Even the crickets didn’t chirp as loud, preferring to keep quiet in the woods, and he found himself shifting in his saddle. Only a fool amongst them would forget that Witchers were still regarded as low as mice in the field, but the atmosphere wasn’t so obviously stained with hatred. He could sense a strange fear around him. One that made him cynically recall no Cat ever did anything out of the goodness of their hearts - if they even had ones. This wasn’t a place to be protected or saved. It was another town to be exploited. Meaning the commonfolk were going to be, at best, rude. At worst? Hostile. It made him reach to his belt to touch his twin short swords, contemplating such a thing.

Better to let his cloak hide them and the silver attached to his back. His entrance needed to be silent.

Slow and quiet, he rode in on his black destrier, letting his ‘evil’ eye take in the tiny, unassuming town, doing his best to understand the place before he fully entered from the road. Observation was a key skill for any witcher to have and the more information he was able to gleam, the better it was to save himself from relying on his viper medallion and senses. As beneficial as they were, senses could be dulled and medallions stolen in the night. Patience and intelligence were things not easily nicked and were the greatest asset when one least expected it.

He shifted again, reining in his horse, and he let the beast lean down to nick at the grass growing beside a fence. Acting as if he was a traveller with a stubborn horse instead of a Witcher with a purpose. Nothing stirred, yet he kept his guard up.

From his saddle he was able to observe without any interference or alarm. The houses were all quiet with elm-scented smoke lazily rising from the hearths. Thin wisps that drifted from chimneys and roof hatches, the smell of the night’s feast mingling with ash and embers. Sweet and rich; Enough that he felt his tongue moisten, yet he took care to ignore the hunger. He let his gaze slip over each of the buildings, noting the closed shutters and darkened rooms, each house nearly identical with matching metal fasteners. He could see slight flickers of light between cracks, but out of the seven he could see, five of them were pitch black with obvious wards drawn on doors and wood. Some fresher than others.

Clearly, they were unsettled, even within their safe wooden walls.

The road of the town had more footprints than horse and the majority seemed to travel between two locations: To the well, its rope fraying and worn indicating how much use it experienced a day, and to the Inn. The other so-called watering hole. He focused on the place, the only bright spot in the entire town as it welcomed in the tired with open shutters and heavy smoke billowing from a leaning chimney. It appeared average and nonchalant - a typical traveller’s rest stop on the way to bigger cities. Only he could feel the slight agitation in the air just from looking at the place. That its fire was running hot, but unwillingly.

There was no music playing, nor were their patrons lingering outside. In fact, when he listened, the entire place seemed peculiar and silent for the amount of recent tracks that led to it.

He flicked his wrist on his reins, pulling up his horse, but not letting it move on. Not yet; Not until he was finished observing. From the shingles to the grass, his unnatural eye opened wide to soak it all in and deduce the tension of the town. One he could already guess the reason for, but assumptions were always ridiculous to make. Evidence was a better truth.

It didn’t take long to properly assess everything. One of the houses that he couldn’t see very well had a surprising amount of activity, something he could even see through closed doors and linen-covered windows. Townsfolk were gathering in it rather than the Inn, and the makeshift guards of the town were moving in a pair, but to the same spot. A precisely aimed corner where one could make observations towards the Inn. A sentry's post, in a sense.

He didn't have to be a genius to tell there was discontent.

From where he sat, he could see a boy waiting from behind a house in the shadows, trying hard not to peek around the timbers, but humans never were good at being subtle. He was waiting for him to either cross through town or enter it proper; He knew the signs of a child lookout. The boy was young enough not to be a problem and easily dismissed, but not too much so that he couldn’t relay the information he would get. Stupid-looking, yet smart. Every town had one. 

Like a well-timed play, as soon as he nudged his horse on, steering it toward the main road, the boy came out, pretending to be wide-eyed and curious. As if he was the mummer he had been waiting for. A _Vakmeth_ to his _Roscent_. 

He didn’t bother glancing towards the houses; It was obvious there was someone watching from behind every window and door. Staring at him with unease. It made him close his red eye and shrug his hood on further to hide his features, sitting straight to hide his swords. Place was already ready to panic without it realizing there was a second Witcher in their midst. One that the boy puttering up to him didn’t need to figure out either.

“Hiya’ Mister!” the boy said as he jollily skipped up, careful not to be too close in case a weapon or whip was drawn. “That’s a nice horse you got!” He didn’t reply. “He looks real strong!”

He was careful not to let the boy see his face, even though he was trying hard to. The night was good for one thing - concealing, and he let the shadows swallow his features.

“He got a name, mister?”

He turned his destrier toward the inn, walking it calmly the old hitching posts. No other animals were tied up, he noted. Meaning his fellow Witcher either walked, or someone had stolen it. He doubted the latter was true; No one stole from a Cat. Though it they had, they were going to wish they never bothered - or lived.

“What’cha here for, Mister?” the boy was on his heels, staying back again as he finally dismounted and manually led his horse to the posts, tying the lead in a diamond knot. He trusted his mount, but not the town, and a complex knot often dissuaded thievery. Again, the boy pressed, rounding around his destrier to try and catch a glimpse of him. Grasping for anything that stood out so he could report back on what this new stranger looked like. “We’ve got a lot around here, you know. Not just the Inn. Did you come to stay the night? My mam makes a real good-”

He turned, just enough for the boy to see the bad side of his face. The one marred with scars that looked muddied and rotted, his red eye opening for only a second, but enough for the boy to freeze and terror to fill his features. He hated to traumatize a child, but if he was going to report anything, it was that the townsfolk should stay the hell away. Lest they end up looking like him.

“Go home, kid,” was all he said before turning back to the inn, not bothering to address him further.

If the boy was smart, he’d heed his council. Tell the others to as well and have them lock their doors. If not, he only hoped the kid wouldn’t be near when the proverbial kettle boiled over. Provoking a witcher never went well, no matter how many swords were involved, and he doubted they could even comprehend what was even in their town. No one ever understood the psychopathy of a Cat. Not even themselves.

He heard the boy staggering back, his muscles finally working after the terror had lessoned, and he predictably ran off. Not toward any of the other quiet houses that could have sheltered him, but toward where the town was gathering. It made him inwardly sigh as he closed his red eye. The commonfolk never learned. Every generation was as foolish as the last.

As he suspected, the Inn inside was near-deserted and it was clearly unnatural for it to be so; The chairs and tables were so worn they looked polished and the scent of wood soaked with beer overpowered the cooking meat and roasting pears. The Innkeeper stood rubbing tankards at a stone counter that ran smooth from wear, her hair tied up messily as her eyes kept shifting between the only occupied tables. She clearly was a woman who was used to smiling and proclaiming warmth, her wrinkles and plumpness an indicator, but that night she was dour and tense, her eyes strained when she glanced to greet him.

He didn’t meet them, preferring to observe the others who still occupied the Inn. Once again pulling in information for a future benefit; One didn’t need to be able to see the future to accurately predict it if they rationalized it right.

The only patrons were a young couple that were nervously picking at a loaf of bread and a man tucked away at the far end, featureless and hidden by the shadows that haunted the corners, the candles beside him doused.

He nearly rolled his eyes at the figure. How painfully obvious he was being.

Nervously, the innkeeper set down the well-scrubbed tankard, moving to address his presence as she slowly rounded her counter with cautious steps. “Welcome, sir. This-”

He held up his hand to silence her, his eyes still on the lone Witcher who was clearly smirking back at him. It was a strange place for a reunion, but he found it rather fitting in a way. After all, where else would a Snake and a Cat meet, if not in some hidden den in a forgotten place within the world? Surrounded by humans wanting to kill them and shadows that weren’t doing enough to conceal their hideousness.

“Wine,” he said in a soft voice. There was no need to scare the woman more than she already was. “Chateau Mont Valjean, if you have it. If not, I’ll take whatever red you have. And make it two.”

The Innkeeper hesitated. “Two, M’lord?”

“For me and my companion,” he said, lowering his hand, and he left her side to go join his fellow Witcher, not bothering to say anything more to the anxious woman. Even as he approached he could see the two cat eyes glowing from beneath a dark blue hood, the slight smile still quirked on his mouth as if he wasn’t surprised to see him after all this time.

He only returned a neutral expression back, snapping his fingers to light the candles and expose them both properly to one another. From behind him he heard a slight gasp in shock at the display of magic, the tension in the air growing with anxiousness as he finally came to stand before the Grandmaster of the School of the Cat. The damned psychopath he had been looking for and the one who had scared the village into a shaking fear.

Gezras of Leyda. 

One of the more loathsome of all their kind.

Gezras barely moved as his shrouded face was exposed by the light, revealing pale, marbled features that distorted him into looking younger than he was. He knew the truth, however, his own gaze unflinching as he stared back. The Witcher before him was even older than he was, and ten times more cruel than his spirited expression suggested. It left him pulling back his own hood to show more of himself, both eyes opening to stare at his ‘companion’. Letting him see the difference between them - Both Grandmasters yet he was the one with the disfigurement.

He almost seemed amused to stare upon his scarred face. As if his brushes with death were deserved.

“Ivar,” Gezras said, his voice still tilted with a strange purr. Feline sounding, yet it didn’t come unnaturally. As if his former accent had been twisted like his blackened soul. “Isn’t this a surprise?”

“Gezras,” he muttered back, not in the mood for his mocking as he closed his eye once more. The effect had clearly done the opposite of what he intended - damned lunatic always had a way of messing with him. “Aren’t you a bit far south? I thought you Cats all fled North.”

He gave him a wry smile, the scar on his lip cracking slightly making him quickly look unsightly - and more like the Witcher he was. “And I thought all you Snakes were dead.”

“Hardly,” he said, taking a seat.

“Shame.”

“Shame?”

Gezras shrugged before he raised his own hand and snapped his fingers. The candlelight went out instantly, dousing them in darkness, but he could still see his glowing eyes. How they reflected the light from the candles far behind them, making him appear near deranged. He almost wanted to light them again, just to deny him the satisfaction of controlling the atmosphere between them, yet he stayed his hand. He wasn't there to get into a petty fight. “Yes. Shame. As in I was hoping all you Viper Witchers would be dead.”

“Why is that?”

“You keep taking my contracts.”

He felt something in him twitch. A small bit of irritation that pulsed at the back of his throat. Quietly, he swallowed it down and properly opened his other eye to glare at the other Witcher, who met his gaze back with a cold, amused expression. He still acted like he was a cocksure bull and it honestly made him scowl. After a century, one would think there would be some growth, but clearly such a concept didn’t exist for Cat Witchers - even a former Grandmaster.

Or it just didn’t exist for him. Which seemed much more likely.

“You haven’t changed a bit,” he finally vocally observed as he adjusted comfortable in his seat, making it clear he intended to talk for a while. Gezras only rolled his eyes, but he stretched his neck with a calm laziness, reaching up to briefly scratch at his blood-red hair before settling back against the wall with a slightly more relaxed stance. Accepting the circumstance. “Even at your age.”

“Why would I?” he half-yawned.

“I would have thought your extended mortality would have given you some wisdom.”

He made a strange sound. As if he was trying to laugh yet wasn’t sure on how. “You mean because I have elven blood? Sorry to disappoint you, Ivar, but things don’t work that way. I don’t just become a sage because I have a bit of Aen Siedhe in me.”

“I mean living this long would have made you a little less abrasive to deal with. You’re still the same irritating brat as you were a hundred some years ago,” he pointed out. Gezras stared at him for a moment. Long and hard, as if he was trying to understand why he’d say such things, his cheek twitching slightly. “Despite your extensive age.”

“Maybe you’re just growing too docile, Ivar. I heard you’re still chasing sky ghosts-”

“The Wild Hunt,” he corrected him, his red eye twitching at the mere mention.

“-Right. Ghosts. On spectral horses. How fascinating for you.”

His mouth drew into a thin line. This already was going off-kilter, though he knew he shouldn't be surprised by it. “It’s better than killing nobles.”

He again attempted to laugh, the huff that came sounding dry and sarcastic. It was slightly unnerving and he found himself grimacing at him. Demons, monsters, and conquering elves he was used to yet despite it all, it was other Witchers he found himself struggling with. Especially the psychopaths from the Cats. He clearly caught on to his discomfort. “You’re going to lecture me on killing nobles? Have you really lost so much control of your School that you’re now blind to what your pupils do?”

He grit his teeth at the implication. “I have never sanctioned those and have repeatedly warned my students not to get involved.”

“They still do.” He practically glowed when he said it.

“They do out of necessity at best. Not because they enjoy it, _Gezras_ ,” he emphasized his name, not hiding his accusation. It didn’t seem to phase him at all.

“For a Witcher who has second sight, or whatever you call it, you are remarkably blind. Funny how that is.”

He narrowed his eyes as the bastard smiled at him as if it was all a game. It wasn’t hard to realize the conversation was pointless. Like a cat playing with a mouse, he was merely toying with him for his own amusement while he writhed in discomfort. A notion he didn’t appreciate. “I didn’t come here to discuss my students or myself. I came here for a reason.”

“Hm.”

“Gezras, I know you got into Gorthur Gvaed,” he started. “What did you take?”

He stared at him for a second, his mouth twitching into a half smile - a strangely genuine one - before it rapidly disappeared and his expression turned hollow and cold. His eyes flicked past him and he found himself following them, turning right when the Innkeeper came close, her hands white as they gripped two tankards. It reminded him of a rabbit that was creeping too close to a den of wolves. Nearly scared witless while the monster in the darkness watched and waited for an opening to come out and kill.

Small wonder humans hated them.

“M’lords,” she said, her voice strained as she tried to be respectful. Gezras leaned forward and she nearly flinched, her fingers shaking as she set the tankards down, trying not to look at him. “Your wine.”

Gezras regarded her with almost disgust in his eyes, his expression sharp and frigid enough that even if the candles were lit, it wouldn’t have given them warmth. He chose to act decent in opposition, nodding gratefully to the innkeeper and making sure she didn’t see much of the left side of his face. Attempting to be courteous before she too ran off to the house filled with vitriolic villagers to report them both. He wasn't in the mood to fight in an Inn.

He pulled out a few florens from his breast pocket and held them out for her when it was clear she would get no such luxury from Gezras. “Thank you,” he said quietly, keeping his voice neutral and soft.

She only nodded weakly, cautiously taking the coin before practically fleeing, leaving them alone once again, though he could feel her eyes on them as she stole away toward the other couple, her voice low as she spoke quickly. Telling them to go report in her stead, no doubt. It didn’t shock him in the slightest and he found himself focusing on the wine for a second, ignoring the sounds of the tavern door opening and shutting in a hurry.

If the wine was poisoned, it would do nothing to the both of them, but the commonfolk would never figure that out. They always assumed a drop or two could kill him. Unaware of his tolerance; Since the beginning, Viper Witchers always dabbled in suicide.

Yet he doubted it was actually mixed with anything than water. If there were herbs to be found, they were probably saved for sicknesses instead of death.

Gezras only peered into his tankard with utter blatant suspicion, as if it was tainted with more than just poison. He ignored him as he took up his mug and paused to inhale the scent, picking out slight floral notes as if plucked by a Goddess’ fingertips. Young wine, aged for maybe a year, with hints of blackberry. An attempt at sophistication without overspending on resources.

Gezras continued to glare at it, looking ironically like a cat that had been placed in front of a basin of water. “You that worried about it being poisoned?” he found himself asking. Gezras’ cheek twitched in a slight sneer.

“No,” he said. “But I wouldn’t trust anything in this place.”

It was his turn to give a scoff and wry smile. “Are you Cats so weak against a little venom?”

He returned the favour with a hollow grin of his own. “Sorry I like to be cautious. I don’t enjoy the feeling of vomiting in the bushes all night.”

“Why are you here then? I doubt anything you’ll get from these people will be untainted.”

He stared at him for a moment before finally taking the wine, bringing it to himself as his eyes slide down to visually inspect what had been served. He studied it like he would a book, as if the truth would surface if only time was taken and he found himself almost laughing at how he chose to be observational. As if the damned sociopath finally was using his brain.

Fortunately for his skin, he stayed his tongue and waited, curious on Gezras' assessment as he seemed to struggle between drinking and flinging the cup into the corner. It took nearly a minute for him to finally raise it to his mouth and even then, he merely swallowed a drop of it. No more, no less.

His disgust was immediate and he dropped the tankard rather violently, not caring how it almost splashed on himself. He honestly was like a child.

Ironically, he looked the part too. Always would; Elves never seemed to age and Gezras' was perpetually stuck at age twenty-three.

“What?

“It’s watered down,” he bared his teeth.

He drank, savoring it with his own tongue. It yielded nothing save for a slight watery flavour that didn’t distract from the intensity of the wine. If it was mixed, it was done generously enough that the coin was still worth the price. “Tastes fine to me.”

“Then drink mine as well,” he shoved it toward him. “I’ll not dirty my palette.”

He stared at him for a long moment, picking apart his brief words. How strange that such a wild Witcher was so concerned about what he consumed. Vanity never was their strong suit - he knew the former Grandmaster had no qualms about being bathed in mud and blood - yet he was acting like a nobleman who had been given sulfuric well water to drink. He folded his hands for a moment, thinking on his reaction. It wasn’t as if they were friends, it was more that he knew the damned Cat hadn’t been the type to be concerned about the taste of wine. It left him observing him, rationalizing every moment and sentence as Gezras slowly started to relax again, his face still etched with distaste.

“You’ve been down south for a damn long time if this wine bothers you,” he finally concluded, narrowing his eyes again to let his red one take over to truly see him for a moment. How his blood pumped slowly in his veins and the infused magic pulsed in his bones. He was damn old, but the amount of time he had been Grandmaster was beginning to blur with how long he hadn’t. When had he disappeared from the North? “How long have you been in Geso, Gezras?”

“Who says I’ve been staying here?” he said, leaning back against the wall.

“If not here, where? Surely not in Nilfgaard itself,” he said, though his words were unsure. It would be suicide to stay in the Empire’s capital. Viper and Cat Witchers were hardly distinguishable to humans and there had been a strict warrant out for his school since the fall of their stronghold. The old Grandmaster couldn’t be that stupid as to ignore it.

“Where I stay is my own business, Ivar,” he replied after a time, his fingers finding one of his short blades attached at his hip to fiddle with. He studied the tip for a second before bringing it to his teeth, scraping at his canine. If he had been one of his students, the blade would be against the wall. Such manners, even for Witcher, were unsightly. "That's all you need to know."

“Nilfgaard has no love for Witchers,” he reminded him.

“I never said I was staying in Nilfgaard.”

“Anywhere in the Nilfgaardian empire. There’s no place that is exempt, you know this. And it doesn’t take a load of intelligence to see you’re a Witcher,” he pointed out. “Even if you blindfold yourself, people will figure it out.”

He merely continued to pick at his teeth. “Do you think I’m stupid enough to wander around where people can notice?”

“You’re here. In an inn in a village. Where there are people who have clearly noticed you.” He paused, realizing something. “Where are your swords, Gezras?”

For a moment, he smirked, withdrawing the blade to wipe at the tip between his fingers. Completely bemused by his observation. “They’re with me. And they - these villagers - put out a contract. I filled it. If they want to report me to the local garrison, they’re welcome. But then they also will have to explain why they didn’t pay said garrison to kill their Spriggon and where said money had come from.” His smile grew hollow. “And if there’s anything these little provinces hate, it’s letting their dear conquerors know they have money to spare.”

He exhaled slightly. At least that was one mystery solved. “Geso has been under Nilfgaardian control for a long time.”

It was a slight change in his expression, but he recognized the mocking look even for a few seconds. Gezras was never good at hiding his contempt. “No country likes being occupied. Even if a thousand years pass by, Ivar, there will still be resistance.”

How droll. 

“Are you referring to the elves?” Gezras barely blinked at his question. “Your elven ancestors were dying out long before humans came, if I recall. Their resistance is rather foolish at this point.”

“My ancestors? You presume a lot.”

He found himself glaring at him. He couldn't tell if he was leading him on or not. “You have Aen Seidhe in you, Gezras. You said it yourself. And it's not exactly hidden knowledge to those of us who know you.”

“Too little to matter or to have anything to gain from it,” he muttered, turning his blade over in his hands until he once again moved it to pick at his teeth. This time from the other side. “I don’t have ancestors. Or legacies. Or whatever else there is. I have contracts and wounds and a hundred years of dealing with humans, which is what I’m referring to right now. Patriots do not like occupation and even if they bow, they still will curse their oppressors names in the night.” He gave a small shrug after he scraped at his back teeth. “But they always have coin for monsters. And I’m cheaper than grovelling to the Garrison, which probably wouldn’t even be able to kill the fucking spriggon. Considering how lax and stupid they’ve become.”

His reasoning didn’t sit well with him. “Rarely do these types of places enjoy giving up their coin. To a witcher or a soldier.”

He seemed to agree. “They don’t. But when babes start going missing from cribs, a woman’s constant wailing can be a good motivator.”

As morbid as it was, he was right in that sense. Yet he still felt the old Cat was overlooking the obvious. “Despite fulfilling their contract, they’re not too thrilled with you, you know. Outside-”

He almost smiled again. It was a look that didn’t suit him at all. “They’re gathering? I’m well aware. I heard them discussing what to do with me earlier, when they thought I couldn’t hear. Because apparently Witchers are deaf.”

“Why?” he had to ask.

“Why what?”

“Why are they plotting against you. Did you even kill the Spriggon or did you just wound it and bring some sticks back?”

He gave a soft huff. Insulting him without saying a word. “You think I can’t kill a walking tree?”

“I think you enjoy killing other things more than monsters.”

His eyes almost seemed to glow at the accusation, yet he didn’t address it. “I killed it. I dumped the head at the elder’s feet. And I asked for my coin. End of story, Ivar.”

It seemed too routine of an answer to be true. Though interrogating him as if he was a student was beginning to wear thin. “How much?”

Gezras didn't miss a beat. “As much as I was owed.”

“Which was?” he continued. When he didn’t reply and it didn’t take anyone of intelligence to see the reason the townsfolk were furious. “You robbed them?”

“I did what was asked and I took what I was owed,” he twirled his knife for a second, the blade almost suspended between his quick hands. “And it was fair.”

Somehow, he doubted it. “Then why are you still here?”

Gezras shrugged, wiping his knife against his knee before he moved to sheathe it. “Maybe I like to see what humans are still capable of.”

“They can easily kill you,” he said.

“Perhaps.”

Perhaps. He was taking this way too lightly and it made him shake his head as he moved to drink more of the wine. Older than him, yet as arrogant as a newly mutated Witcher. Wonders never ceased. “You’re not immortal, and for your age you’re too damn cocky, Gezras.”

His head tilted slightly, the grin still plastered on it like a cat that had killed a prized parrot, and it made him scowl. No wonder the other schools turned Cats away and scrawled that the former Grandmaster to be dead. Better him erased than the ugly truth that he was outliving them all. “Did you come here for a reason, Ivar? Or was it to just stick your forked tongue where it doesn’t belong?” he asked, still smirking.

For a moment, he hesitated, ignoring the insult. It was a clear deflection to change the subject. No man - Witcher or not - reveled in being told their flaws. Yet it also wasn’t his problem to what Gezras did. The backlash against their kind wouldn’t stop even if one of them tried to be the better. Erland fought hard to change their reputation and it got them nowhere. His own Vipers were forced into a corner due to the prejudice they faced and he had too many ghosts and demons to chase on his own.

Whether he liked it or not, whatever Path the former Cat Grandmaster was on was his own. Just as his Path led him to his own set of challenges and revelations. So, he relented and refocused. Back on why he even bothered to track him down. The peasants could stab him for all he cared; Information was what he needed.

“What did you take from Gorthur Gvaed?” he finally asked him, point blank.

The sly bastard took his damned time to answer, his expression unchanged as he drew out the pause. “I’ll tell you if you answer my question.”

“Which is?”

“How did you know I got in?” Gezras asked, purposely purring his words. His cheek twitched in response as he flashed him another one of his unsettling grins. One that showed off his pointed teeth. “You abandoned your stronghold, didn’t you?”

“We were forced to abandon it.”

“Right,” he waved him off as if he was a dullard. “Last I heard, the Usurper is dead. You could go back.”

As if it was that simple. “We cannot. You know this.”

“Then how do you know I was there?”

He found himself nearly sneering, both his eyes focusing on him coldly. No, patience was the key to this and letting him get under his skin would bring him nowhere. Instead, he took another drink, taking things slow enough to make the old Cat Witcher’s grin fade and his cheek to twitch in annoyance. When he finished, he quietly took his discarded tankard and added the wine to his own. Pouring carefully and precisely until he saw Gezras roll his eyes.

Only when he had brought himself into a calm state did he speak. “Do you ever go back to Stygga, Gezras?” His expression instantly drew into one of blatant fury as his gaze tried to pierce right through his chest. He played naïve to his anger, as if he didn’t know his origins. A little bit of payback for his rudeness. “I return regularly to Gorthur Gvaed because it’s where I was _born_. It's my home, Gezras. One I didn't want to leave. More importantly, Gorthur Gvaed contains a wealth of information other than being the seat and birthplace of my Witchers. I know the library wasn’t completely destroyed and I intend to still recover those tomes. I return to see if I can do so every decade.” He flicked his eyes up and the old Cat only pressed his lips in a thin, white line. "I've done so for a hundred years."

“The bridge is destroyed,” he said quietly, his amusement all but vanished. He only gave a solemn nod.

“It was - and will forever be. Yet you somehow got in.” He focused on him fully again, his red eye burning a hole into the cat's gaze fixed back at him. “How?” He regarded him for a second, and for a moment he wondered if he was going to have to start threatening him. _“How, Gezras?”_

He yawned. It was forced and they both damn well knew it, the bastard returning to mocking him silently, but he began stretching and popping his neck and shoulders, the sounds of joint fluid snapping making his own bones restless. Lazily, he began cracking each knuckle through his gloves, but he could see the years of tension still coiled within them. He was calling his bluff; He knew he had no intention to fight.

“Gezras,” he said, his tone purposely clipped.

Finally, after settling back against the wall, he responded. “I’ll answer one of your questions. Not two.” His golden eyes began to slightly narrow, turning into the slits he was used to seeing reflected back at him in mirrors and still waters. Witcher eyes. “And I’ll give you this for free. Because I’m feeling generous.” He yawned again, this time genuinely. “Your library is exceedingly dusty.”

He inhaled slowly at that, the words somehow hurting. When he left, the place had been pristine. The thought of all their tomes - their finite yet delicate knowledge - rotting and being coated with dust made the last human part of him ache.

It was that part of him that had to ask. “Is it still in tact?”

Gezras gave a small shrug. “Somewhat.”

“Are you lying to me?”

There was a long pause, but he could see from his heartbeat alone he wasn’t. “No.”

He exhaled, his mind ticking with the revelation. Even if the cocky prick in front of him refused to say how he got in, it was enough that he somehow had and witnessed their library. Perhaps an expedition could be rallied. There were too many secrets and texts to be allowed to waste and it yielded a positive flutter in his once-dead heart. That their hasty abandonment of the fortress - the deaths and bones that littered its deep valley and river underneath - wasn't for naught. There was hope in salvage.

In celebration for the knowledge, he took another drink of the wine. Then another so he could calm himself and refocus. He wouldn’t be satisfied with just that kernel of knowledge, but it was a good start. “So then what did you take?”

“Who said I took anything?” Gezras smirked.

“You’re not the type to break into a castle-”

“Is it really breaking in when it’s been abandoned?” he gave him a full smile this time, showing all of his teeth and just how hideous he could look when he wanted. Like a marble sculpture that hadn’t been made quite right. There was something dangerously grotesque about him, he just couldn't pinpoint what.

Cautiously, he inhaled in discomfort, steeling himself as he forced himself to continue their eye contact. He wasn’t weak enough to break, even when the former Grandmaster was purposely trying to rattle and unseat him. “Gezras, I am acquainted with you enough to know you do not enter places unless there is something you want. I know you didn’t find a way into the Viper stronghold to look around because you have some sort of interest in other Witcher schools. I want to know what you took.”

“Why does it interest you so much?”

“Some of those books have a lot of value,” he unwillingly admitted.

“Who says I took a book?”

“I doubt you have a passing affection in our swords and armor. And we had nothing else of great importance than our library.”

He seemed to ponder that sentiment. “Some would say the same about the Kaer Seren.”

Bullshit. “Kaer Seren did not have the information we did.”

Gezras smirked slightly again and he finally realized why his grinning was so off-putting. His smile never reached his eyes, making him look as hollow as a Grave Hag. As if the only thing on his mind was killing.

Damned Cats.

“Gezras, _what did you take?_ ”

He was as still as if carved from bedrock, his coldness making even the candles at the other end of the inn shudder as he held in the smallest breath, waiting to see if he’d break. Only Vipers weren’t made from weakness or dripping clay, and he imitated him back, not moving a single muscle. Refusing to even blink.

The tension grew thick for a moment, the inn filling with the threat of being witness to two Witchers going at each other’s throats. Both fixated on each other, letting the atmosphere prickle with the pressure, neither of them backing down. From the other end he could hear the Innkeeper's heartbeat quicken, the atmosphere between them so thick with controlled loathing he could almost taste it. A harsh, acidic touch to the palette.

Yet something in the former Grandmaster must have relented - either his mind or his will - and he let himself break first, his eyes softening as his shoulders began to lower. Slowly he leaned forward, pushing himself off the bench to stand so he could reach behind him, and he let his own muscles relax as the tension between them lessened. He wasn’t in the mood to unsheathe his blade and he let the Cat hear his sigh of gratefulness. He didn’t respond to it.

Quietly Gezras unhooked the clasp to a satchel tied against his belt and he produced a thin notebook with worn and peeled leather. One that looked as old as he was. Without ceremony he dropped it on the table before sitting back down, his body sinking against the wall, curling slightly like a tomcat that had moved to sit on in a sunbeam.

He took a moment before he carefully picked it up, snapping his fingers to light the candles once more. They burned hot for a second before each took a life of their own. Flicking and fluttering in the dead air.

“A notebook?”

“Brilliant observation, Ivar.”

He ignored his snide comment as he carefully opened the well-worn book. The writing inside was crude and Gezras huffed at the expression he had unknowingly made as he flipped through the first few pages. “As if your writing is any better.”

“It is,” he rebuked him as if he was a child. Using the same tone he took with recruits for an extra emphasis. “But considering your School and it’s history, I can overlook it.” He paused for a second as he realized one of the terribly messy words was ‘Nilfgaard’, only spelled with three a’s and a u. “…It’s still rather pathetic to see.”

“Ever the teacher, aren’t we?”

He didn’t reply as he flipped through the notebook. Some pages were nonsense - writing on monsters, strange symbols and drawings. Others had some intelligence to them. Two pages were a rough drawn map, yet it was clear it was Aedirn. He found himself studying it, noting the position of the cities and where he had even marked down certain villages. It was surprisingly to scale and done with a careful, controlled hand. Something he found himself shocked to see. Gezras didn't seem capable of control.

“You’re skilled at drawing maps,” he observed. Gezras said nothing and he didn’t push it.

Halfway through, the writing turned better. Sloped and curled, the notes turned neat and readable. He frowned at the descriptions of potion making and herbs, the language different than what had come before. It took him a moment to realize someone else had written out detailed instructions on pharmacognosy and concocting oils and salves. Each recipe even having a note on what monsters were susceptible to it, or what cuts to apply such things to.

He stated the obvious. “This isn’t your writing.”

Gezras’ eyes flicked to him, then down to his notebook before a wry smile crossed his face. Like he was remembering a joke. A particularly morbid one. “No, it’s not.”

“Whose is it?”

“Does it matter?”

He pondered his reply for a second. The only thing he could think of was it was either done by a scholar - or a woman. “I suppose not,” he muttered, letting it drop.

It was a few pages until the notebook turned blank that the writing turned messy again, written with what was clearly Gezras’ hand with sloppy lines drawn to mark columns. Each had a name, scrawled nearly illegible, and he found himself raising the notebook closer to his eyes to try and discern the meaning. It took longer than he liked to decipher it.

Country. City. District. Title. Proper name. Living status.

He blinked, lowering the book back to an acceptable viewing level as he rolled the names over in his head. Country. City. District. Title. Proper name. Living status. It clicked after a second.

“These are a list of nobles.” Gezras said nothing but his smile had grown almost wicked. Feral, in a way. “What is this?”

“What I took from your school.”

Quietly, he went over the list again. He didn’t recall ever reading them in the library. “You broke into Gorthur Gvaed for a handful of names?”

“Yes,” he gave him a disturbing grin again, the corners of his mouth revealing a scant hint of his teeth. It was ghastlier than his own marred face and he finally flinched from his stare. Something that seemed to delight the bastard. “If you think I wanted information on your Sky Ghosts, think again. I prefer things grounded in reality.”

“Right,” he muttered. “As if reality is your strong suit.”

“Hm?” Gezras’ cheek twitched as he leaned forward slightly, but he refused to repeat himself. Let his insult remain unknown to him.

Slowly he turned the information in his mind, studying the names again. Half were old Nilfgaardian, but there were lineages he recognized in the north. Noble families that had fallen, some that were waning or had merged with others. There didn’t seem to be any reason for them and he found himself re-reading each name, trying to recall their importance.

Gezras merely leaned back, settling in on the bench again, his eyes sliding to the wall before they slightly closed. Completely calm despite the storm brewing around them, both physically and mentally. He sighed and settled in himself, picking through the names again, trying to fix their links together as the candles burned down and the Innkeeper behind them flitted around nervously. Waiting for them to leave.

Poor thing would have to wait a bit longer. He needed to decipher this and why such names had been in his school’s library to begin with.

The confusing question was on why Gezras needed to infiltrate the former Viper Stronghold for such a list. It had to be something deeper than what it appeared. The old Witcher didn’t do tedious things for nothing, and each name had a significance to it. Slowly, he read through every one again, his eyes flicking up slightly to study the former Cat Grandmaster as he did.

Gezras didn’t relay any information as he relaxed, his eyes slowly closing as if he meant to sleep, yet he knew he was fully alert. Waiting for him to finish, yet not pushing him. But he was still pretending to be satiated. It left him retaliating by using his long suffering patience and observation to think and slowly pick apart the truth. That a little notebook had the answer to something, it just needed a decoder who could unravel it until it was properly deciphered.

Quietly, he rolled the names through his head, taking them slow and saying them with his mind. Each syllable important. A contract that would ask for such a quantity of names would have come back to him. Though he was aware the way the Vipers were turning, it wasn’t hard to find out when one was taking assassination requests. The nobles of the North and South were equal in that regard. Yet the names on Gezras' list were too inconsequential for such drastic measures, and nothing as of late indicated any of the rich and powerful wanted a coup to erupt.

It was only when he was gleaning through it a third time did he notice the importance of the status. They weren’t all nobles like he had mistakenly thought.

He found himself staring at Gezras, watching how nonchalant he was. He didn’t care if he saw the names, or know that he had broken into their school. It wasn’t deliberate, yet there was an arrogance to what he had done. This was all for selfish reasons. 

“These aren’t contract names.”

He remained silent.

He recounted the amount, ignoring his lack of communication. “Sixteen names, some noble families, all across the realm. There’s Nilfgaardian, Kaedweni, Lyrian, Koviri, and Cintrian.” His fingers tapped the table before they slowed and he finally recalled what tomes Gezras must had found. Upper level of the library, away from the core information of the Wild Hunt. While he preferred the Viper library to be curated, amassing information had never been enforced and books were often brought from wherever they were available. Most found or bought, yet there were some stolen in the collection; They all knew this.

However it was the upper shelves that commonly held non-crucial information. Books filled with information that wasn’t considered crucial but still of interest. Such as dynasties, family trees, and lineages.

He tapped a single name. “The Verrars family were once well-known sorcerers and sorceresses.” Slowly Gezras’ eyes opened. It only took him a few minutes to finally link it all together. “These are the names of mages.” Slowly, he leaned back, closing as if it was cursed and tossing it back to him, the book sliding on the tabletop. There was only one reason Gezras would ever want such lineages. “You’re killing them.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment, though he could see there was no defensiveness in his eyes or body language. Instead, he merely reached over the table to pick up his book, holding it closed for a second before he opened it and let it fall to the pages he had been on. Bored as he looked upon it, yet his ugly smile was fighting not to display across his mouth.

He was truly psychopathic.

"You're slaughtering the wrong humans, Gezras."

"I beg to differ," he said softly. “You know, Ivar. The funny thing about mages is they’re never really sorry.” His voice was quiet but as cold as frost in the night. A chilling tone that made him frown deeply. “You can ask them things. Nicely. Or with threats if they get belligerent, but it doesn’t matter, really. You can ask if they think it’s justifiable to throw the corpses of children into pits, to chain said children up and experiment on them until they’re begging for death. To subject boys to everlasting horror in the name of their sick curiosity. But they always have an excuse how they’re the innocent ones. How they deserve no judgement. It was all in the name of the betterment of humanity or the gods.”

He snapped the notebook shut. Loud enough that he heard the Innkeeper nearly drop a plate, the room growing thick with tension again. He could see how Gezras’ cheek twitched, how the loathing underneath his skin burned and still agonized him. He couldn’t let his transmutation go, even at his age.

He took his time in replying, making sure his voice was level as not to provoke him. “That’s in the past, Gezras.”

His cheek twitched again, fighting between a sneer and a smile. “Funny, that’s what these families claim as well. It’s all in the past. Have mercy. Their son, their father, their grandfather - all of them didn’t know better.” He glowered at him, this time his eyes stabbing into his chest and affecting him. He made him almost shiver from the raw anger that lay deep in his pupils. “Everyone always has an excuse. Everyone’s fucking blameless.”

“Because it is in the past, Gezras,” he breathed, taking him in again, unravelling him to the bone. He could see how irregular his heart beat had become, the struggle within his bones and tissue remain calm. It was beyond vengeance at that point and the emotions he was displaying were growing erratic and senseless. The sign of the Cat Witcher’s failure. “You’re punishing families that had nothing to do with your mutation process.”

“It’s not about the mutations. Do you think I’m bothered by that?” he bared his teeth in emphasis. “It’s about the torture I endured, Ivar. What all us Cats did.”

He was taking it too personally. “We all did. You’re not the only one-”

“Oh, fuck off. You were willing,” he interrupted in a sharp, piercing tone, his teeth beginning to bare as his eyes drove into furious slits. “I never was. And the fact that they continued when I begged them not to. When I pleaded with everything I fucking had for them to stop! To stop tearing me open-!” He was almost shaking, his fury so intense it made him swallow, his own sense becoming hyper aware of where his weapons lay. One wrong notion and there was no doubt Gezras would give in to his insanity.

But there was still a thread of control within him. Thin - weak - but it was there. After a second of him trembling in fury, his teeth clicking together as he swallowed and fought for words, the exhaustion took over; That it wasn't worth it. Not this time. Again he slumped back, his hands clenching and unclenching for a moment before his breath and heartbeat grew steady. “They’re the real definition of psychopathy. Not me. Not us.” He leaned forward to slip his notebook back into his satchel, his eyes not leaving his as he did as they turned dark with malice. “But of course you’d side with them.”

He spoke without thinking. “I side with the innocent.”

“Get your head out of your ass, Ivar. No one is innocent,” he spat.

That made him glare at him. At how arrogant he had truly become if that was his viewpoint. Even worse, he began to recall something - a rumor that had drifted in one day about the old Grandmaster and his habits. How hypocritical he was being and acting as if he was justified. As sad as his story was, it wasn’t unique, and he was too old to be acting as if the wounds had been made only yesterday. “Aren’t you involved with some sorceress? Or several?” he said, carefully watching his expression.

Gezras gave him a hollow smile. One that looked like he wanted to cut off his head right there. It only made him adjust his posture, aware of their position and how fast he could get to his own swords. His were on his waist, he had the advantage, but Cat witchers never fought fair. He wouldn’t be faster than him, but he could give himself some leverage if Gezras couldn’t reach his swords in time.

“Why not kill them?” he dared to ask, hoping it didn’t have to come to that.

“Sorceresses have nothing to do with what I endured,” Gezras said. It was a blatant excuse.

“They still practice magic.”

“I don’t give a shit about all magic users. Just these ones,” he said, his cheek beginning to twitch. Fighting between snarling and smirking.

“I didn’t think you had a soft spot for women.”

“I just fucking said my answer. It’s not about women or men, Ivar. It’s not _fucking about that_.”

He knew not to prod, that he was bordering on becoming absolutely erratic and unhinged, yet a part of him didn’t care. Bastard had broken into his school for these names. Perhaps a part of him wanted some form of retribution for him defiling sacred Viper grounds. To slap some sense into the scrawny prick.

“Why?” he pushed. Gezras’ temple twitched. “They’re dead, Gezras. Why do you continue this?”

“Why do you care?”

“Why do you care? You got your revenge at Stygga, did you not?” He dug in, watching how the mention of his former school once again made him tense and nearly sneer. “They’re dead. You won in the end.”

He gave a mirthless, dry huff. Another attempt at laughing that didn’t quite sound right. “My vengeance was never completed.”

“And this completes it? Killing innocents whose only crime is their lineage?”

“This is a start.”

“Gezras-”

“Spare me your lecture, Ivar,” he finally cut in, his voice thin on patience as his teeth were bared again, his eyes catching the light once more to make them glow like he was possessed. “You got your answer. Are you satisfied?”

He said nothing for a moment, his own cheek threatening to start twitching in irritating. The lunatic repeated himself.

_”Are. You. Satisfied?”_

“…Hardly,” he finally said after a moment in disappointment. Again, he shouldn’t care, but it was difficult not to. Because every time one Witcher went on a massacre, the rest of them suffered. Yet he knew Gezras wouldn’t give a damn. Cat Witchers never did. And considering how fast he had gone from calm to nearly drunk on his anger, he guessed the former Grandmaster never would.

“Well, that’s really not my problem.” 

"Gezras-"

He suddenly went rigid, his eyes sliding past him, narrowing to thin slits before they slowly began to flood again, his cheek twitching as if he was trying not to smile. This time without the rage behind it. Without another word he reached behind him and pulled up two swords from the floor - one curved and the other crafted from pure steel - each as deadly as they looked.

It made him begin to listen to the noise around them and unconsciously he felt the atmosphere shift from beyond the Inn. The townsfolk had grown tired of waiting and he could count the amount of them coming toward the Inn, ready to make their stand. It didn’t surprise him when the Innkeeper nervously began jittering and slowly making her way to them as Gezras started strapping his swords to his back, his studded leather gleaming against the low candlelight.

He held in a sigh as he moved to gulp down the last of the wine in his tankard, letting the watered down liquid slide easily down his throat, the sensation cold yet warm enough to wake up his nerves. He finished as Gezras stepped out from the table, his dark armor blending in with the shadows save for the hints of silver studs and white cloth. Everything he wore was light and barely provided defense, but he knew not to underestimate the Cat Witcher’s deadliness. He could reflect a bolt and cut through chainmail faster than an armored soldier could reload a weapon. The prick may have looked like a scrawny, poor beggar, but it was all a ruse to offset those who took life at face value. Who thought he was a pushover.

It clearly made the Innkeeper nervous as she finally approached their table, her plump lips tight as her fingers worried her apron. Gezras adjusted the knives on his hip, making sure she saw.

He truly was detestable at times.

“M’lords,” the Innkeeper said, refusing to look at Gezras as she wiped her hands on her apron for the seventh time. “Pardon me, but I’m afraid I need to close early tonight.”

“That so?” Gezras drawled and she nearly flinched at his sarcastic, cold tone. He pulled his hood up, but not far enough to hide his terrible eyes. “Wonder why.”

For a moment, she almost answered, but whatever lie she had been thinking clearly wasn’t good enough and she dropped her gaze move to the floor, her voice coming out so quiet a mouse’s squeak could have been louder. “M’lord, please. I’m closing.”

Ivar found himself studying her as she wrung her hands on her apron again. Guilt was written all over her face, from her wrinkled forehead to her worried lips and he found he almost sympathized with her. Not all towns were united in their mentality, and it was clear the woman hadn’t wanted to go along with the village's plans. Whatever had passed between them had led her to reluctantly relenting, and it made him sigh as he studied how her heart was beating in her chest. Quivering and nervous, yet there was a heaviness in her gaze. Not every Innkeeper could afford to be rebellious. She probably didn’t want this, to force them out to face a gathering mob, yet they were both trapped in their positions.

And once more, Gezras didn’t seem to care. He merely let his mouth curl up, exposing them both to his ghastly grin as his eyes pierced into her avoidant gaze, judging her with an intensity that made his own skin prickle. Immediately she cowered, her hands growing stark white against her apron as her eyes slide toward the door. No doubt silently begging for help. 

“Fine? Then I suppose we’ll vacate, right Ivar?”

He found himself glaring at him, dissatisfied with his intimidation of the poor woman. “Gezras,” he said quietly, but he was already shrugging past, his eyes near glowing with excitement. It made him rub his own in exasperation, particularly his red one, and after a second he pushed off the bench, glancing to the woman whose complexion had paled considerably. She looked as if she was going to be ill. Again, part of him sympathized. He still had a shred of humanity in him, and those utterly blameless always tugged at a few of his remaining heartstrings when they were out of their element.

He had seen too many innocents be subjected to the horrors of the world - theirs and the ones the invading Wild Hunt came from. No matter how many times he experienced it, his heart wasn’t a chunk of ice.

“You should hide,” he said to her. She swallowed tightly at his words. “Bar the door when we leave and damn well hide. Away from any walls, just in case. Or in a cellar, if you have one.”

She said nothing and he sighed, moving to follow Gezras after it was clear she was barely listening. He pulled his hood deep around his face, an uneasiness filling him at the prospect of what he was walking out to face when a tug on his cloak stopped his advance.

“Sir, my son,” the Innkeeper begged, her voice beginning to shake as much as her hand. “He-He’s just a boy. A child, M’lord. He’s out th-there with them and-! He’s just-!”

He found himself slightly turning on his heel to give her a woeful look, letting her try and structure a sentence before her trembling ended any intelligent words. Gently he pulled his cloak away from her, taking her pathetic state in for a moment. It was hard not to try and comfort the woman, yet there was still part of him that had to be cold to such things. If his heart bled for every human, he never would live himself.

His heart wasn't ice, but neither was it always bleeding for humankind.

All he could do was give the barest of reassurances as Gezras slid out the door, already farther away than he preferred. “Pray he’s not out there,” he said.

“M’lord-!”

“-If he is and he’s in danger, I’ll see what I can do.”

He moved away when she gazed up at him, refusing to see her expression or let her see the true fullness of his face. She didn’t need to see his scarred face, red eye, or any reluctance his expression might hold. That he didn't want to engage in this - even if her son was outside. He strode to the door, his heart growing heavy in his chest, but he maintained himself. He came here for a reason - an answer. Now that he had it, anything beyond wasn’t really his concern. Gorthur Gvaed was penetrable; He had an argument to rally his Viper Witchers to try and re-enter and recover what they could. Whatever Gezras’ Path was no longer concerned him and if the townsfolk were smart, they’d see he was a beast not worth provoking and return to their homes.

The evening could end if there was a recognition of intelligence; No one needed his eyes to judge a situation and understand what was best. A witcher was not to be antagonized, just as the Emperor wasn’t. Coin could be brought back, but lives couldn’t. Surely someone in their ranks had a sliver of rationality?

As he pushed past the door, stepping back into the darkened world, he found himself staring at the mob of men surrounding the Inn, their expressions harsh and furious as they held makeshift weapons and poorly-crafted swords. The air was heavy with the taste of tension that led to unmitigated violence and his cheek twitched in disapproval.

This was utterly blatant suicide.

All weapons were pointed at Gezras, who merely stood relaxed before them as if he was greeting old friends. He didn’t need to see his face to know he was smiling like a sadist and he let the door shut quietly behind him. If the Innkeeper was smart, she’d be barring it now.

“You’ll not go further, devil,” one of the men said, his posture and greyed hair making it clear he was the Ealdorman of the village. Though he was lacking any intelligence if he assumed this was an appropriate stand to make. “Not until you pay for your crimes!”

Gezras only cocked his head slightly, acting naive. “And what crimes would that be?”

“Your theft from us! Your abuse of our hospitality and larders. Your hexing of Rikker,” the Ealdorman started. “And for the murder at Claycross!”

He found himself frowning at the murder allegation. Claycross hadn’t been written in his notebook, yet Gezras’ constantly frayed sanity didn’t mean he was innocent. It still seemed a rather odd crime to cry out, especially when taking in where Claycross lay; A border town at the northern edges of Metinna. Such a baseless accusation sat uncomfortably in his stomach and he found himself opening both his eyes to survey the town - how the anger flowed vividly through the veins of men.

No matter the truth, it wouldn’t satisfy the crowd. Worse, none of them wished to acknowledge their disadvantage. Nine men against one Witcher wasn’t great odds, but Gezras had been appointed a Grandmaster for a reason. Even Arnaghad had to acknowledge him. He wasn’t a fool nor was he merciful. In fact, he seemed delighted by the charges his heart beating fast and light in his chest.

He wanted this.

Briefly, he looked to his horse, contemplating leaving for a moment. This wasn’t his fight nor in his interest to stay. But it was unsettling to see how eager the old Cat Witcher was. As if he had been waiting for this chance to come - an excuse for him to exercise his form of entertainment. Even though he didn’t agree with Erland’s ideals or a sense of duty to anyone but contracts and destroying the Wild Hunt, there was a sense of disgust in him that a Witcher delighted in killing.

Not to mention, if was another nail to be driven into his own school. He already had lost one Viper to Nilfgaard’s hospitality. Any more and their school would be on the brink of extinction.

Stupidly, he stepped forward, moving to stand near Gezras and survey the men before them. He felt the Cat Witcher’s gaze for a second, a coldness prickling his neck as his smile drew thin with irritation, but he ignored it in favour of preventing any insanity from unfolding. The damned Cat could go find monsters to slaughter if he was bored. “What proof do you have?” he asked the town. “Claycross is leagues away. Far enough that what happens there would be a rumor at best.”

The Ealdorman’s face grew grim, annoyed he had been challenged as the men around him exchanged a few looks. From the back he saw the boy, tugging on one of their shirts, trying to whisper something to a young man who held an axe. Why was he outside? Did no one have any intelligence anymore?

The Ealdorman took his damn time in answering, raising his chin as he did to look down at him. He couldn't tell if the old man saw he was a witcher or if it was his natural state to be so arrogant. “Who’re you? What business do you have with this?”

“He rode in not long ago,” another man said to the right. Middle aged, holding a hoe. Hardly a weapon to use against a Witcher, but townsfolk never could figure that out. “Celd saw him. He came just to go into the Inn and talk with the devil.”

He heard Gezras’ let out a soft huff of amusement at the name they had assigned him. He didn’t find it particularly funny.

“You have no issue with us,” the Ealdorman warned. “And we don’t have any with you. Leave, stranger.”

“Yes, Ivar, why don’t you leave?” Gezras purred from beside him, his grotesque grin growing, once again painting his marbled features with madness. “This is between them and I.”

He scowled, temporarily ignoring the Ealdorman. It wasn’t as if the old man would listen to him anyway. They were all too primed for a fight. “I won’t let you slaughter a bunch of innocent people. There’s no need to start a massacre here,” he said, loud enough that some of the older men hesitated, their grips unsteady on their pitchforks, axes, and picks. It wasn’t a warning, but a truth. Yet none retreated. Too stubborn to acknowledge they were no match for a single Witcher.

Gods protect them. His voice lowered so only the other Grandmaster could hear. “Leave them be, Gezras. You got your coin, you’ve got your damn book and list. You have no reason to provoke them.”

“You once again presume everyone is innocent,” Gezras said, clicking his teeth together for a second.

“Gezras.”

He was already reaching for his blade.

 _“Gezras!”_ he said, clipping his voice in a sharp tone to try and dissuade him, but the townsfolk were already getting ready to fight. Hands gripped handles and poles hard, feet dug into soil and grass, and stupidity ran too deep in their heads to let them see anything other than what foolishness they were bringing to themselves. The moment Gezras’ curved blade began to leave its sheathe, one damned idiot moved to attack. As if running headlong at a Witcher would mean victory.

He barely had a grip on his own blades before Gezras’ had swung his. It was a gift of their school, the swiftness in which a Cat could move, and the former Grandmaster was nearly unequal in his speed as he shot forward like a panther. Faster than what he could ever hope to achieve. Before he - or any of them - could even blink, the fool who had come forward was falling backward without a head, the spray of blood dark and thick as his lifeless body collapsed in a gruesome heap.

The response was immediate. Even he found himself blinking in shock at how fast the man's death had come.

“Gods-!” one of them shouted, a few staggered back at the sight, their weapons drawing tight to themselves as Gezras turned and flicked his blade, sending drops of blood across the dirt. “He killed Vist!”

“You demon!” the Ealdorman shouted, stumbling back. “Dev-!”

It was the last words he spoke. The first cut had stopped him mid-sentence, the word twisting into a cry of pain as the blade slashed upward over his chest. The second tore open his throat as Gezras spun past him, his curved sword sweeping smoothly through skin and bone, as if he was letting go of a dance partner. Clean, effective, yet the smell of arterial blood flowing made him grit his teeth.

One of the men dropped their weapon and ran.

“Shit,” he hissed, ripping back his hood before he pulled his own steel swords out, the damned bastard slicing through another one of the townsfolk, the sharpness of the blade severing the man’s arm from the elbow before he could even raise his axe up properly. That was when the rest of them finally understood their disadvantage. A barely armed peasant had no chance against a blood-drunk Witcher. Nine against one wasn’t even fair - even less when it was against a Grandmaster.

“Run!”

He didn’t give the command, but whichever one of them did, the remaining men heeded; Though, it was woefully too late. Even as they scrambled and bolted, every man running in a different direction, Gezras chased their heels, his blade flashing as he tore through flesh, his eyes glowing while the damn smirk remained curled on his lips.

Blood-thirsty bastard.

He couldn’t save the man with the hoe, his back shredded as he howled in agony and collapsed, completely paralyzed as his spinal cord was severed. Even if he got help, there wasn’t a chance he’d walk again. All he could do was stop the damned Cat before the entire villager perished - or he himself was taken down by his blades. Though he refused to go so easily if it came to it.

He pursued him as Gezras pounced upon one of the ‘guards’ of the town who had gained a bit of courage to fight, hitting his cheap, worn blade with such force, the thing nearly snapped.

“Gezras!” he spat, the flurry of sparks from steel hitting steel bright against the night, but the outcome was the same. From thigh to throat the man was brutally slashed, enough that his cry of pain was cut short as his life left him, his cleaved body falling unceremoniously to the grass. “Gezras!”

He still didn’t stop. Drunk on his pursuit, his eyes wild as he continued to rush towards anything that moved. Doors slammed, shrieks sounded behind wood, but he refused to relent, moving as swiftly as a warship over a sea, disappearing into the shadows cast by the houses as if he had some dark magic to blend into their crevasses. He was relentless in seeking any peasant still unable to take shelter. As if his bloodlust wouldn’t be sated until every human was dead. A one-man Wild Hunt; There was no intention to leave anyone alive, just as they never did. He wanted the ground to be slick with blood for his own little amusement, and just like the with the damn elves, he was the only one who could adequately challenge him.

If he could catch up.

He rounded the back of the house too late, hearing only a gurgled cry as a body almost fell onto him. He caught the man - headless - and let the body drag to the ground, gritting his teeth at the carnage. Yet his streak was coming to an end as the village doors were barred and windows slammed and locked, the commonfolk finally figuring out what they had brought upon them. He could hear the sounds of furniture dragging to block entrances, muffled crying from women and babes, and the shuddering from the few men who did escape, their hearts like bright stars behind their wooden walls.

A kick sounded on the door to the southeast and he weaved behind another house before he caught Gezras stalking like a tiger in the darkness, his sword and armor dripping with blood as he seemed furious that the homes were closed to him. Like they should open up so he could reap their hides. His eyes caught the light, glowing for a second, revealing his controlled insanity, and he followed his gaze as he scanned the town for anything else to kill. Whatever easy target could come out and continue coating his blade in gore.

Goddamn Cats. Before he could call out and even attempt to talk him down, something - someone - darted towards the inn. A small, quick figure that he recognized instantly from the painted terror on his face.

The boy who greeted him; The Innkeeper’s son.

_Shit._

“Gezras,” he barked, his tone warning him not to engage. "Gezras! Leave him alone!" He ignored him, his steps light and deathly silent, like a wolf that had spotted a wounded deer, and his pace picked up before he could attempt to intercept. No matter how fast the kid was, he was damn well not as swift as a Witcher, and he felt the pressure boil inside himself as he watched what was, in essence, a tiger chasing a mouse.

“Gezras!” he shouted louder. He was too far to stop him and he was left with only one option as the bastard rushed over the grass like a bird in flight, his blade like a deadly wing, angling for a precise, brutal kill.

Quickly, he brought his right sword to his mouth, biting the steel as he bent his middle finger, spreading the rest wide. He drew the sign of Aard in a blink, his hand thrusting down as he did, and the invisible force of magic took hold. A hard pulse that he had concentrated on training for years, one substantial enough to send an instant shockwave through the ground, trees, and houses.

It made no sound as it left his hand, but the ground cracked powerfully. It was that noise that filled his ears.

Instantly, it rattled the village with a violence that shifted foundations and roots, the entire world seeming to buckle as the force placed upon it, but his expulsion of magic had a point: It knocked the Witcher off his path.

With his Sign, the force caught Gezras off his feet, knocking him hard enough that he tumbled off course, his sword cutting through soil instead of its intended target of flesh. Unfortunately, the kid hadn’t been spared the impact either and he cried out as the invisible shock knocked the breath out of his lungs and spilled him into the bare-worn dirt, scraping his arms in the process. He rolled like a rag - one caught in a tumultuous wind.

He’d recover; It wasn’t strong enough to tear the child apart and despite the scrapes, he’d live. What was more important was the damned Cat had been sent back enough for him to close the gap and he took the chance, dropping his blade back into his hand as he crossed the open space with a hard run. It didn’t take long for Gezras to rise back up, his eyes wild with anger as he flicked dirt off it sticky edges of his sword, but he cut the distance between them to stand in protection of the boy, his heels digging into the flattened grass like a dog defending its pups, his teeth gritting as he inhaled and steadied his breath.

Gezras spat on the ground in respose, his eyes still glinted with the madness of a soldier drunk on war, yet there was that damned amusement still dancing in them. As if this was all a game. He raised his blades, meeting his gaze with a leveled, angry glare, and he let his silence speak the volume between them. This wasn’t exactly how he imagined the evening to go, but now that it had, he solidified his stance; No longer would he show any restraint if goaded. 

“Run, kid,” he growled. The child behind him didn’t move until he turned and pulled his hood back, flashing his red eye and disfigured face at the kid to make him realize the seriousness. Again shocking him with the horror of his visage seemed to work. Terror was painted all over the kid’s face, but his grotesque glare seemed to rattle him into moving. He scrambled back on his hands, looking like a startled rabbit, and he turned to face the Cat Witcher once more as the kid rushed to the safety of the Inn.

The damned bastard didn’t look amused to lose a victim as the sounds of banging and the door slamming filled the void behind him. “Gezras,” he held his tone with a strained evenness. “Enough.”

He rubbed at his cheek, the unsettling smile coming back. “You’re still here?”

Gods damn him. “I said I wouldn’t let you slaughter innocent people.”

“Right,” his grin looked almost demonic at his admission. “And how has that gone for you?” Guilty, his cheeks warmed. He should have stopped him the second he walked out of the Inn. “Leave, Ivar. I’m not interested in you.”

He adjusted his grip on his swords, not backing down. “I said I wouldn’t let you kill innocents. I meant it. You just got a head start on me. But no more.”

“Right,” he scoffed. “And there’s that word again. Innocent.” He let out a huff, this time out of sarcasm and admonishment. “No one is innocent, Ivar. No one.”

“Oh, fuck off with that,” he snapped, the curse coming out strangely form his mouth, but the circumstances dictated it. “Gezras, the only thing that isn’t innocent here is you. Stop acting as if you’re some damn judge. You cheated and threatened these people so you could have a reason to kill them. Even when I damn well came, you didn’t just leave it, you damn psychopath.”

“Of course you take their side,” he sneered, his tone growing cold. “What evidence do you have that they’re not lying? That I’m simply being framed for their damn cheapness?”

He was beyond trying to rationalize his insanity. “This is how you react to a simple accusation?”

“They were out to kill me before I even finished the job.”

For some reason, his gut told him he was lying. “I doubt that.”

“You doubt it or doubt me?” he asked, baiting him as he turned his sword in his hand, flicking it again, knocking the drying blood and dirt off the tip.

“Both,” he finally said. “I know you.”

“You know me. You know me?” Violently, he spit on the ground, baring his teeth after. There was a tinge of pink on his teeth. Whether his blood or the villagers, he didn’t bother asking, but his agitation made his skin prickle with the rising tension. “You don’t know shit about me, _Ivar_.”

“I know you, Gezras,” he repeated. In a sense, he damn well did. He was well-acquainted with sociopathic Witchers like him. The types who always seemed to crawl out under the banners of the Cat schools or the corners of cities where cruelty was unnoticed. Or from different worlds. He knew his type and how little he thought of anyone that wasn’t himself.

In a way, he probably would get along with the Wild Hunt elves. Not that he’d ever tell him.

“Reading my notebook doesn’t mean you suddenly are an expert on who I am.”

“I know your type.”

He snorted. “And what’s my type?”

There was a moment of hesitation as he studied him. He had no reason to answer him, yet the longer he distracted him would give the townsfolk time to hide. He carefully picked out his observations in his head, taking in a breath to calm himself and once again enter a state of silent neutrality - facing him with the same blankness he had in the Inn. One where he became immovable against his erratic emotions.

“You are cruel because you feel owed. That every time you inflict such savagery on others it gives you something back. That your damn pain means you can wield it against everyone who dares to see you for the sneaking, unhinged thief that you are. You’re not different than the mages who tortured you, Gezras.” His eyes flashed in vile, deep hatred at his accusation. “You just tell yourself you’re different so you’re not accountable. Just like them.”

“I am nothing like them.”

“Then leave,” he bit back. “Leave these damn people alone. They’ve done nothing to you.”

For a second, he looked as if his words go through. His grip shifted, his sword lowering until the tip grazed the blades of grass, his jaw tight as his eyes drove holes into him. Stabbing into his chest with a disgusted hatred that he knew wasn’t just for him. Deep down, it was at himself as well. But like the flicker of a candle, his restlessness changed his mind.

His eyes wandered back to the houses and his sneer came back. “They wanted to kill me earlier.”

“You led them to that point,” he challenged him. He made a soft huff of disbelief.

“Doubtful. These types of people always want Witchers dead. And I don’t see why you defend them.” His eyes flicked back to him and he could see them growing wide, his pupils expanding. “Why should I show them mercy?”

“Gezras,” he grit his teeth. He was letting his emotions cloud himself again. “Let them be.”

“Why should I?”

“They’re innocent!”

“No, they’re not.” His lips were starting curl up, showing his teeth.

“Gezras-”

“You’re not answering my question.”

“I damn well did,” he said, but he could see the pointlessness now. He was already growing riled and furious, his derangement coming back. “You’re just damn well not listening to me!”

Again, he let out his strange, mirthless huff, an indicator of how thin patience his had run. “Oh, I am.” He cracked his neck again, spitting once more before he turned his sword in his hand, letting the blood shimmer and creep down the blade toward the handle. It looked nearly black against the night. “But you've already got your own bias of what happened. You see me as nothing more than those damn mages did, don't you? Some failed boy who doesn't understand the fickleness of reality."

"Gezras-"

"But you know, Ivar, I think I just don’t care anymore. You aren't apart of this, so I will grant you to leave.” 

“Leave?”

“Yes. Leave. As in you piss off. Fuck off back down the road and to your stronghold. Back to your Vipers and Sky Ghosts. To your little books and tomes full of pointless information. Otherwise-” he showed the full extent of his teeth once more, the scar on his lip cracking again as he began swelling with insanity. “-Well. Witcher or not, I don’t intend to show favoritism.”

A flood of his own anger filled him and he couldn’t help but open his eyes fully, giving him a complete view of his disgust. This damned bastard - the mages at Stygga would have been better of killing him than ever letting him gain the strength to leave. That what had escaped was far worse than they realized. He was utterly and truly _broken_. “Witcher or not,” he said, adjusting his own swords in his hands, letting him see how sharp they were. Well-cared for and used. “I don’t intend on showing it either if you provoke me. Last warning, Gezras.”

He paused for a moment, tilting his head at him as if he was genuinely amused by his refusal to leave. That he wasn’t so craven as to tuck tail and run. “You human lovers-”

“You’re half-human, Gezras. Cut the shit-”

He took a step forward, testing his boundary as he began flexing his shoulders, his cruel smile not leaving his lips. “I’m not damn well anything, Ivar. But answer me this before I get to see what a Viper Witcher’s insides look like.” He couldn’t help the scoff of incredulity of his arrogant words. “Why do you even care about this little shithole? This speck in the middle of nowhere? They’d string you up and gut you in a second if they got the chance. You know it.”

“I don’t care-”

“Then fuck off.”

“-But it’s not about that, Gezras. It’s about what you’re doing. The damn principle of the matter.”

He smiled at that. “Principle. Amusing.”

“Yes. Principle. Something you don’t understand.”

He didn’t seem bothered by his insult, nor did he have any intention of pursuing his argument. “Ivar. Last time. Why do you care?”

He surely wasn’t this blind or willfully ignorant. As if he was only listening to half of what he was saying. “We’re Witchers. What you damn well do does concern me and everyone else. Your massacre’s will be painted on us all and I’ll be damned if I get strung up because you're sick in the head and find this sort of thing pleasurable.”

He attempted to laugh again as he took a side step. Almost elegantly. “Stop being so dramatic. I’ve killed villages before and you’re still alive.”

“Gezras-”

“Your morals are pathetic, Ivar. Same with how long you’ve been here bothering me. Now are we going to have a friendly little dance or do I need to kick down some doors and give your beloved little villagers a reason to scream?”

This was pointless.

“Gezras,” he grit his teeth. It damn well didn’t feel good, but there was no other option on the table. All the cards had been played and the only thing left was to cut the rotten units before they cost him every game. And as much as it pained him to have to face an irrational mutant, he could handle the fight to come. As long as it stopped the furthering of a massacre. Wild Hunt or Witcher, he wasn’t going to stand by and let it happen before his two eclectic eyes.

“Raise your damn sword.”

The bastard smiled in utter delight.

He didn’t waste any time either.

Gezras was in front of him in the second it took him to blink, swinging with full intent to maim, his eyes glowing and wide like a tiger’s in the night. He caught the blow, the shock running up his arms and bursting pain into his joints and marrow, but he deflected it enough to expose the bastard’s right side. Even though he was at a disadvantage with his sword lengths, having two had a hidden benefit. Instantly he swiped his left blade down, nearly cutting Gezras’ abdomen as he redirected their energy, but it only went through air.

The bastard had shot back before he could make any form of contact, easily avoiding his second slice before he pounced again, slashing toward his neck. Again, he deflected, the shockwave shooting up his bones straight into his jaw, but Gezras’ danced back sooner than he could react to try again. And again. And damn well again. A ceaseless onslaught made to wear him down and force him to weather blows that made his upper body ache from the clash.

Yet he wasn’t some young hatchling who only got his swords two days ago. He dug his heels into the ground and took the blows, trying his best to absorb the impact with his armor rather than his flesh. It rattled the bones in his arms, aching and wrenching them with a fierce enough fire that he began to hiss between his teeth, but he had trained for defensive maneuvers. He had fought all manner of beasts and man and had gazed deeply into the eyes of the monstrous Wild Hunt hounds that hunted for easy blood. He knew what a trial was; He had survived more than any when it came to the elves. It was his triumph.

Even though he was no damn warrior or knight, he wasn’t so gutless and pitiful that a Cat Witcher’s wild, sloppy beating would render him to yield.

Beside that, he could see from Gezras’ movements and the sweat on his forehead that he wasn’t capable of fighting so recklessly for much longer. His famed swiftness was faltering, his footwork growing weary, and his swings were no longer so powerful to cleave through bone and flesh in a single sweep. The pursuit of defenseless men had taken a toll on his stamina and he was expelling a good chunk just trying to beat him back. He wanted him to relent - he was banking on him to. Just to save himself from the reality that he wasn’t able to continue causing chaos unless he downed a potion, and he somehow doubted he had any that would help. Nothing in his notebook suggested such concotions.

It only made him resolve to hang on, and in the break between swings he snatched his right blade in his mouth again and started to bend his fingers. He touched his thumb and little finger together, forming an unbroken loop, and he thrust his hand out seconds before Gezras’ brought his blade down, the signal of Quen snapping around him in a blink and smashing the curved sword away from his skull. It knocked the Cat’s blow back, his sword making a painful screech against the magical barrier, and Gezras faltered and stumbled in shock.

He recovered with a shake of his head, his feet sliding on the grass, but the outrage in his eyes told him exactly how he felt about it. That his stunt had indirectly hurt him and he was damn well pissed about it. He only dropped his blade from his mouth, catching it in his hand with a slight twirl of triumph, and the shimmering shield flickered around him as if signaling approval to his cockiness. It only put Gezras in a worse mood.

“Fucking cheater.”

He shrugged. “As if you play fair,” he said, watching him stalk around him, waiting for the magic to weaken and break. “Cast your own signs then, if it pisses you off this much.”

His cheek trembled with a loathing fury and he damn well could see why. Even without his red eye fixing on him he could see his limits and how close he was to hitting them. He was too exhausted to cast a sign, the strain it would cause alone great enough to bring him to his knees or to collapsing. He hadn’t trained himself for being able to wield the magic they knew for long periods and it made him silently thank whatever god or void in the universe for delaying such a thing in him. If Gezras had the ability to constantly wield signs and attack, then an army would be the only thing large enough to challenge his fractured psyche.

All he could do was circle and wait for the sign to cease, his sword tip nearly dragging on the ground as he glared at him like he wanted to tear him to pieces. He followed his movement, steady with his own gaze as they became not unlike the animals they had been assigned to. A tired old panther trying to kill the cobra that was coiled in its way.

It gave him enough time to observe Gezras and his footwork. How his steps were incredibly light and balanced, not unlike a dryad’s - or a Scoia’tael Commando’s. The grass barely parted beneath his feet and his carried himself with his strength focused on his lower body instead of the upper. Tailoring his muscles for stealth and speed instead of like the rest of them. Starved of the weight even he had taken on to carry his swords and armor, but he could see the power that existed in his limbs.

He was damned more dangerous than he had taken him for. His time with the elves had taught him well.

Predictably, his shield began to flicker, shutting down his observation of the Cat, and Gezras stopped, his grip tightening on his sword again as he waited for the opening.

He grit his teeth and once again brought his sword to his mouth. He didn't have much of a chance against him if he aimed to beat him down again, so he had to rely on his own honed training.

“Quen’s not going to save you this time,” Gezras said, his pupils expanding so wide they almost drowned out his golden eyes. He didn’t say anything. “You should have left when I gave you the chance, Ivar.”

He bit down on his blade, his teeth rigid against the steel, but he couldn’t help but reply; Soft enough that it was almost to himself. “So should have you.”

He didn’t respond - or he didn’t care.

The fragile magic around him quivered for a second, shimmering like the scales of a fish, before it finally faded and left him fully vulnerable once more. Gezras turned his blade in anticipation, his feet carrying him through the grass without a sound, his body leaning forward to give him speed - to cut their distance short so he couldn’t activate Quen without him already being in the circle - but the Cat Witcher failed to see the shape of his hands. To understand why he was willing to do one last cast.

His curved sword swung, inches from his face, ready to slash a bloody line from his red eye to his throat, when he slammed his palm down and the force of Aard exploded from his hand. A thrust so powerful it drained every ounce of magic from him, the houses around them rattling hard enough from the shockwave that thatch blew loose and dust buckled and exploded into the air, the sound of the earth cracking like a thunderbolt striking through a tree. His own horse screeched from where it was tied, kicking from the powerful impact and the muffled sounds of cries from terror echoed behind wooden walls.

But nothing got it worse than Gezras. It hit him in the chest, knocking him back so hard his sword skated from his grasp and he twisted and rolled in the grass and dirt until he stopped near the well, some thirty feet away. For a moment, he was motionless, his back to him as he lay in a heap and he stared at him until the expulsion took its toll. When his body stopped feeling invincible for a split second and truly grasped what he had done. He gasped for air himself as he steadied on his knees, his bones feeling hollow and drained as cold sweat ran down from his temples to drip off his thin beard, and he leaned over to catch himself, inhaling sharply.

He felt as if he had summoned an earthquake in himself. One that left him like an old man; As if his soul had aged years from casting such a powerful force. He wiped at his temple with his arm, keeping steady as every little muscle, bone, and fiber in him whimpered in exhausted pain, but he managed to keep upright and move to hold his swords in his limp palms. Standing with aching strength because the battle wasn't over from just a Sign. He swayed and recovered, exhaling deeply, before he drew himself into a calmness.

He had stopped Gezras at least. And the Witcher still hadn't moved from where he lay.

Then, there was a wretch. Not from himself or any of the houses, but from the shuddering body of the Cat Witcher. One that was wracked with pain from being hit directly with such a force. He made a coughing, wet sound before he lifted himself up with his forearms, shaking for a moment before he threw up onto the road underneath his chest. He gasped again, curling up until he resembled a ball, before he did it again, his breathing raw and stuttered from the aftermath of having every drop of air taken from his lungs. 

He said nothing as he fought with a bout of dizziness, his own body grumbling as it tried to replenish what had been used; Magic wasn’t an endless pool but a finite thing. And he had just kicked open a dam. It was a momentary feeling as his blood began to pump properly again, yet from the amount he had expended, he was shocked he hadn’t collapsed. It had been years since he had pushed himself to such a point with a Sign and he knew the other Grandmaster was suffering worse from his foolish haste. But it was all he had to teach him a lesson.

One he hoped he wouldn’t damn well forget.

The Cat continued to spit and wretch on the ground as he approached and he held his swords loosely in his hands. There was no point in being so defensive when he was curled on the ground in pain. “Gezras,” he said, watching him with a slight bit of sympathy. He had really hit him hard and he could see how agonized he was, his one hand on his stomach. “Enough. End this.”

He spat again, the soil underneath his chin mixed with blood and saliva. It was strangely pathetic to see how easy he was to take down.

“I gave you a chance to leave,” he sighed. He took a moment to rub at his eyes, trying to dispel the lingering groggy feeling. “Take it now before-”

Sharply, he cut him off with a hiss. One that made him pause as he stared down at his curled frame.

“What was that?” he asked. The force hadn’t been enough to silence his speech, obviously. “Gezras?”

He lifted himself up on his arms, his hands shaking for a second before they formed into fists as his swallows grew wet and pained. “I said-” He twisted quickly, his hand sweeping in a solid motion as he kicked off the ground and violently threw the loose dirt and gravel into his eyes, blinding him in a rage that made him shout. He nearly dropped his swords as he staggered back, the pain so sharp and fierce he almost forgot where he was. “-You fucking _snake_!”

The effect was immediate as dirt, sand, and miniscule rocks smothered his vision, forcing him to stumble back. In hindsight, it was a poor move to make, yet his pain had taken over his rationality. Immediately, he felt the bite of a blade on him, his left sword being wrenched from his soft grip, and he kicked himself into fight as brutal quick cuts attacked at his chest.

That _damned_ dagger. He had forgot about it like a fool. 

He swung his own blade wildly and in utter blindness, hitting solid leather for a second before he swooped through nothing but air, and a hard kick to his side made him falter and slip.

The ground was closer than he realized, the impact sending a hard jolt through every nerve in his body, but he couldn’t even attempt to fathom it as another kick landed nearly square in his gut. Reflexively, he curled, barking out in pain, and it left too much of him exposed. 

Gezras went for the back of his throat, slashing toward his spine, but he had damned well lived through worse than a maniac stabbing him with a glorified letter opener. Whatever control he had in not just damn well killing the bastard evaporated and he in turn grappled with him, fighting through tears and cuts of pain to land blows to Gezras’ throat and ribs; Anything to take him down. He felt one of his short blades tear into his thigh, his barked cry confirming it, and he grabbed him by the scruff before his knife could plant in his arm, slamming his head to the ground and making sure the blow hurt.

The harsh, unsettling shout he made at the impact felt damn good.

“Gezras!” he blinked away the gritty, painful tears, as he held face down against the ground. “Enough!” He writhed and fought like a man possessed, still refusing to relent and he had no choice but to put his full weight on his chest as he caught his pale throat in an iron grip, slamming the back of his head down against the ground again. Hard enough that he felt the force go through his wrist.

It still didn’t stop him.

Gezras’ wild eyes locked on his, his fingers clutching at his armor, his knife still trying to pierce through the mail that covered his heart, and the pure, insane stare only confirmed the pacification needed. That he either was going to relent or end up dead - there was no other option.

He grabbed the wrist that still held the dagger, nearly snapping it in half as he twisted it into an unnatural position. The moment Gezras began to show signs of pain, he grasped his throat hard and squeezed. Tightly enough that he stilled, his mouth opening to show teeth stained pink with frothed saliva and blood, but he refused to let go. He had no sympathy left for his sorry looking state.

“Enough,” he repeated. The bastard made a low hiss - still defiant. He squeezed harder until he finally choked. Until the distress began to vibrate under his palm and his free hand left his ribs to weakly grab at his steeled wrist. “Enough!”

He grit his teeth, still refusing. Still trying to struggle free, even as he choked out the last of his air and his paled complexion grew red from the lack of air.

He was going to let him kill him.

“Enough!” he shouted, loud enough that it made his throat hurt. For the damned idiot to understand the weight of the word.

It needed to end.

All of it.

_**”Enough!”** _

For a few seconds, he looked as if he wouldn’t. That the former Grandmaster - the Savior of the School of the Cat - was ready to die being strangled by a fellow Witcher than relent to defeat. But something in him clicked and the buried human part of him emerged. The sliver in him that didn't want to die in such a way - that he still could pick dignity over insanity.

He released his grip from his wrist, his fingers turning into a fist before it fell to the grass in defeat, his other growing slack in his hand. Lifeless and exhausted, he stopped fighting as he closed his eyes, his mouth closing into a tight, pained grit. His entire body drained itself of energy until he was left feeling how utterly fragile he was beneath him - old and worn. Like a tomcat that was years beyond its intended age. That despite it all, Gezras wasn't an invincible twenty-three year old. He was as old as the Conjunction of the Spheres.

Only when he was sure he wasn’t faking did he release his grip and let him gulp down air. Enough that he began to cough and nearly choke again, this time out of a reflex. He pushed off him and slightly staggered away, rubbing at his eyes, letting the tears cleanse the dirt and run off his face. He listened to him as he rubbed, to the rawness of Gezras struggling to breathe, before he picked up his swords, holding them steady in his grip as every part of his own body began to ache.

How many cuts did he take? How long until his eyes would stop stinging?

Why did it damn well come down to this?

The last answer he knew he’d never figure out, but the other two would reveal themselves only with time. Though he could feel one nasty cut near his hip more than the others; It would definitely need some stitching. A lot of him was going to need some care.

But probably not as bad as the Cat. Gezras remained on his back on the ground, his chest rising and falling before he reached up to rub his throat, but the signs he had gotten him just as good were clear through ripped cloth under his ribs and abdomen. He looked like a wreck, his hood skewed to show his blood-red hair, and if he didn't know him, he'd assume he was a corpse. Even the way he was sprawled in the grass projected how depleted he was.

He shook his head, rubbing at his eyes again before he composed himself. What a pair of bloody damn fools they were. “Gezras, Enough of this. Leave.”

He didn’t move.

“Get up and leave. Now. This is the only threat you’ll get.”

He continued to ignore him, his fingers stroking his pulse as he stared up at the sky.

 _“Gezras.”_ His last words were hard with exhaustion, but he meant everything before. If he didn’t damn well get up, then he’d end him right then and there. “Move!”

Though, in hindsight, there was nothing preventing him from doing so, other than his own aching body and reluctance to kill that night. No, enough blood had been shed, and he was too damn tired to behead the psychopath. Even if he full well deserved it.

It only took him a few more minutes before he finally listened and his limbs began to move. Slow to start, sluggish and just as exhausted as he was, but he rolled onto his side, refusing to look at him as he did. He turned further onto his stomach, taking another moment to breathe before he pushed himself up into a sitting position.

Then he leaned over once more to spit into the grass; A long line of saliva that broke and shone on his lips, his breaths coming out in pain for a second before he rubbed his throat once more to soothe the bruising skin. When he finally pushed himself to his feet, he could see how utterly drained he was and how his steps were clumsy and uneven.

He picked up his knife first, holding it with a grip that made him clench his own, but he wisely tucked it away. His next steps took him to his sword and he picked it up with a careful hand, taking two tries to sheathe it. He said no words to him, nor did he look in his direction. Not until he had leaned over to spit on the ground again, the clump a frothy pink. That was when he finally let his gaze slide over to him and the pure, unfiltered hatred behind his eyes made him only scowl in turn.

“Don’t think this isn’t over,” he said, his voice slightly raspy. Even after it all, he still was defiant. As if his ego couldn’t handle he had been beaten.

“It’s over.”

His cheek twitched into a slight sneer before he dropped his lip. “Only to you.”

He narrowed his eyes at him, his swords still unsheathed, and though he was damn well tired, he wasn’t in such a bad shape that he still couldn’t fight. “You lost, Gezras. This is over. All of it. Now leave, before I decide to take your head.”

He didn’t even smile at that - the game was now over. He merely studied him, his expression cold and stoic on his face before he turned and took a moment to touch his throat again. After a heartbeat, he brought his fingers to his lips, but the first blow yielded nothing.

He once more paused to lick at his lips and spit onto the ground before he placed his fingers into his mouth and made a high-pitched, sharp whistle. One loud enough to make his own horse nicker and point its ears forward, unsettled by the call. Gezras repeated the sound in three short bursts, the whistle the only loud thing to echo about the town, before the sound of hooves made them both look to the east.

From beyond the eastern woods, a black mare came at a trot. Young yet well-trained. He could see her move like a shadow - like Gezras - and when she came close enough for her features to be clear, he picked up on how she was decorated with an ornate saddle that was far too nice for a witcher. Gold inlaid into black leather, the etchings elaborate and hand-stitched to perfection.

Gezras remained like a statue as she came, his expression still grim and brooding until the bold mare came within a few meters, her trot lessening to an arrogant walk. Only then did he relax enough to reach out with a open palm, his shoulders dropping as his horse nodded her head and came to a slow stop. Waiting for him with a strange obedience.

He took the reins with a soft grip, his hands oddly kind as he touched her neck, but when he mounted into the saddle, his face once again drew cold. As if all affection had left him again and left a hard shell in its place.

He barely gave him a glance, yet he could tell he was itching to get down and restart the fight. The tension radiating off of him, how his fingers gripped the reins, his jaw tight, his eyes growing fixed and wild again. Wanting vengeance; Retribution. But he wasn’t going to provoke him. He merely stood silent, waiting for the Cat to gain some sense and leave. To realize the moment he tried anything else, he was marked for death, and he had no problems after that point in driving his sword through his heart.

He didn’t move, but neither did he depart.

Not until he was heard.

“Ivar,” he started, his name said as if it was formed from poison itself. He remained calm, yet his grip tightened on his blades. Just subtly enough that he wouldn’t see from his position, yet if he did, the point would be clear. “I’m only going to say this once.” His voice grew hushed and strained with a deep, unbroken loathing. One rattled with the rawness only anger could bring. “You can’t protect them all. I will come back here once day when you’re not around and I will see that every single living thing in this village is gutted and torn to pieces. I will make tonight seem like a dream. That they wished they died so fast.”

He grit his teeth at his words.

“And after I’m done, I’m going to find you,” he finally drew his eyes to his, letting him see the madness behind them. How deep the insanity ran in his veins. How much his _hatred_ meant to his core. “And once I do, I will leave nothing of you left. Not even a thread of your armor. Not even a scrap of your skin.”

He breathed; Unsteadily. There was no point in masking his own anger back. “If you come after me or these people, Gezras, I will hunt you down and tear you apart worse than the mages of Stygga did.”

He said nothing, but the tension spoke for him.

“I’ll await our rematch.” He turned his mare. “Until then, Ivar.”

His cheek twitched at his retreating back. One well-timed knife and it would end the former Grandmaster. Yet he was too weary to attempt it, letting him go and disappear down the road that had brought him to the town, his figure receding and melting into the shadows of the overgrown elms. 

He watched the road for too long after, his mind ticking over the evening and what had occurred as his arms and body began to ache with the wounds and aftermath of battle. To the foolisheness he had engaged in. The insight to Gorthur Gvaed was invaluable, yet it didn’t feel worth it. There was a reason he kept his pursuits to himself and focused on the Wild Hunt. Trying to stop the damned elves had a structure of finalization to it. There was no wavering - it was finite. Almost mockingly black and white. But when he came back from that world and his Path, all he was left with was a mess around his feet and exhaustion in his bones.

The brush with another witcher had left him weary in every sense of the word. Enough that he rubbed at his wounded eyes with the heel of his palm, pressing hard against his red eye until spots bloomed in his vision and fresh, cleansing tears formed. Another bout to wash away whatever dirt still remained embedded in his cornea. Honestly, he was growing too old for this type of shit. His Path was to always be moving forward, not fixing the world, and he finally reached into one of the hidden pockets sewn into his trousers, feeling for a vial as he let his shoulders slump as the weight of the earth settled back onto him.

If it wasn’t the Wild Hunt, it was a Witcher causing him agony. And after them it would be humans again, or elves. Or dwarves. Or monsters - whatever. The cycle would repeat, like an endless, unwanted conjunction and he was stuck enduring it.

At least this time he still had a bit of Swallow left in his scratched-up vial and he carefully pried out the cork with a fingernail, sipping only a few drops. Enough to help with the pain and to heal his rattled bones, but no more. The potion was more precious than gold and until he could get back to where he had been forced to hide the Vipers, everything had to be rationed. His wounds he could stitch and lay salve on, his muscles only needed rest to stop the ache. But the serious things could use just a touch of magical healing so he break anything beyond repair.

Not to mention giving him the energy to get away from the place and out of Geso for good.

It was then that a shrill wail broke through the air behind him, instinctively making him to flinch as he was pushing the cork back in. When he turned, his grip hard on his swords, he was met with the other reason he hated lingering and why his departure was needed. Why such cycles in backwater towns were best viewed from a distance.

Over the body of the Ealdorman was a woman, clutching his blood-soaked clothes, her frame shaking in despair before she let out another horrid cry of anguish. Loud enough that it rattled her body, as if her entire soul was crying out with the loss. More doors had been opened, women spilling out to grip at the dead, and from darkened homes the male survivors shuffled out; Either to watch balefully or with reddened eyes. Lost on what had been brought upon their village. 

He watched from beside the well as the remnants of the town collapsed on itself. Howling, crying, and shrieking over the dead. Some listless in their grief, or silent, while children or babes hung back in confusion or whimpering neglect. Unable to comprehend the death around them.

Quietly, he sheathed his blades. Now came the song for the dead - a heartbreaking, mournful noise that none there would ever forget. The immensity of grief from those left behind was so vocal and visceral, he doubted even his mind would be able to erase the images. It was one of the reasons he hated to be present. He was helpless to their plight - and also to his own memory writing it down in the subconsciousness of his mind. There wasn’t an easy way to forget such things. Even drink could only dull, not eradicate.

Part of him wished that he could purge his memory. If only to forget the despair that a human could have wrought upon them. That despite their attitudes, they were still just fragile things. That he was once apart of them - yet now he was an outsider and cold to their wails. What he knew now was of monsters and the demons from beyond. He couldn’t shed tears that hadn’t first been forced from him, and even then it was out of pain and not sympathy. He wasn’t like them anymore, yet he still had to hear their frailness. How weak they were to the horrors of life.

Silently, he tucked away his potion and pulled up his hood, but was too late to hide what he was - there was no doubt all of the village knew by now he was one of _them_. And worse, he was a prime subject to be blamed. Cat eyes were all that Gezras and him shared, yet it was enough to condemn him to the masses. They didn’t know the difference between a Viper and a Cat. They were just Witchers.

 _Fucking Gezras._ Gods damned Cats.

But despite it, his mutations were his only defense at that moment if any of the survivors dared to attack. They had surely seen their fight through the cracks of windows and doors and felt the force of his magic - what Aard and Quen could do. He exhaled as he felt the magic within his bones soften and relax, the power still weak as it refilled, but the little within him was enough to help calm his agitated form. He went into a state of zen as he felt eyes glare at his back, the villagers noticing that one still remained amongst them; Both of them hadn’t left.

He was still there even though he shouldn’t be.

The vitriol was palpable, but nothing came forth to provoke him. They had gained some sense, but at the cost of six lives. A hard warning to innocent farmers and woodcutters. That it was better to be robbed than to end up like this.

Again, the thought pissed him off. Fucking _Gezras_. How many other towns had he left like this? Families? Strangers? Innocents?

But what was he going to do about it? He wasn’t a moral authority to anyone but his own clan. He bore the weight of all Witcher sins, but he wasn’t their damn judge either. It left him with a bitterness in his mouth as he felt his fingertips tingle with replenished magic. How Erland would be having a right absolute aneurysm in that moment. 

Except the Griffin Witchers always did view the world as more chivalrous than it was. He didn’t have a reason to get involved save for his own reputation and in the end, it left him still marked as a partaker. All he could do was recover and leave.

And put the incident behind him.

When he was satisfied with his current physical state and that Gezras had truly gone, he begin to move, aiming for the Inn. Not to go inside, but to fetch to his horse which still stood quietly tied to its post. The fight was over for him and his presence no longer needed to further disrupt the townsfolk. What he needed was to walk back onto the Path and travel back to the Tir Tochair mountains. There wasn’t anything he could do further and the longer he stayed, the worse the mood would become.

Only it was when he began to cross close to the pathway to the Inn did the insults start. As soon as he tread too close to the townsfolk huddled over the bloodied bodies, the woman who was hunched over the Ealdorman lifted her head to stare at him, her lips shaking with pain and despair as blood smeared across her forehead like she had injured. It was a look of utter malice and helplessness and every concentrated bit of the emotions aimed directly at him. Blaming in all forms.

He purposely avoided her gaze.

“You,” she started, her fingers growing white as she clutched the bloody robes of her husband - or kin. He was choosing not to see her face so he didn’t have to remember it or understand her familiarity to the dead man. “Demon! Demons!” she shrieked. “You’re all demons!”

He didn’t say anything as he undid the knot from the post, his horse turning slightly to look at him, its ears going back. He patted its neck, reassuring the beast as he kept his back to the growing tense village. They’d be gone soon. To some other town with an Inn and hot food and a bed. Where he could wash and find some thread to close himself up. Where his horse could rest as well and get a reward for not breaking free and bolting when it had felt the shock of his sign.

Poor thing hadn’t deserved that.

The damn town hadn’t deserved it either.

The curses persisted, even as he mused to himself. Wild and frenzied, the woman’s voice began to pitch with the madness of hysteria and grief at him. Furious he was ignoring them for his horse. That he refused to look upon the dead. 

“Murderers! Killers! Monsters!” the woman howled, her insults changing into sobs as she was overcome again. “You killed him-! All of them! You wretches. You godless monsters…” She took in a breath. “Bastards!”

He pressed his lips thin.

_”Abominations!”_

He nearly flinched at the word, a bitterness filling his mouth. Yet he took the lesser evil, swallowing it down to embrace rationality instead. If he was them, wouldn’t he shout the same? How else were they to be perceived when the ground was slick with blood?

He remained silent as he hauled himself into his saddle, adjusting his swords so they sat in a better position on his hip. It was best he aim for the mountains - sleep while he rode, if he must - and travel back to where the ruins of his School lay. To gaze upon it again and surround himself with the silence the dead fortress brought. That there was hope from the night for him. That despite the death clinging to him, the utter _damnation_ that Gezras had unfolded, the School in which he had built still held all its treasures inside.

His books were untouched and waiting to be used once more for a greater cause.

And yet.

He truly paused. Breathing for a moment, staring at the reins in his hands as the cries continued. He shouldn’t care, but he _did_.

“He’ll return.”

The woman sobbed, not hearing. So he raised his voice as he stared at the black mane of his horse. How coarse and thick it was. “He’ll return!”

The village grew silent, save for sobs being muffled.

He let himself speak, still refusing to look at them - in case it made him feel worse. “That Witcher vowed to return. He vowed to kill you all. And you damn well saw what he can do.” He took a breath. “Abandon this place.”

There was a long silence after his words. Until one of the men spoke up.

“Wh-What do you mean, demon? What have we done? Why would-”

“He made a vow,” he cut him off. “And our vows always get fulfilled. If you don’t wish to heed my council and abandon this village, fine. But don’t say I didn’t damn well warn you.”

He turned his destrier, ignoring the eyes of the bewildered men and the wails and frightened gasps of the women, his gaze held beyond when a creaking of wooden hinges caught his attention.

One of the windows to the inn had opened and within the sliver of sight, he saw the Innkeeper. Her face was stricken with tears, pale and aged, yet her eyes held a gratefulness in them he wasn’t used to. Silently, she gave him a nod - one of thanks - and he found himself staring in slight dumfoundedness.

Why on earth was she grateful to him? After everything?

Before he could even express anything back, the window was shut as if it had opened by accident, and he was left to decipher the unspoken words. To open his eyes fully and to see her scuttle back toward a shivering figure on the floor, his heart still beating like a steady drum.

Her son.

Six deaths that night, yet he had at least saved one. Whether that boy would grow up to despise them or not, he couldn’t tell, but within that town there was one soul that possibly didn’t see him as a monster. One who wouldn’t call him a demon or an abomination; One who saw he wasn’t the same as the Cat Witcher. He was _different_.

His heart flickered with the slightest taste of relief.

Because it had been so damn long since anyone looked at him with indebted eyes.

But for every one that wouldn’t spit as he passed, hundreds more would. He turned his horse again, nudging it to sweep around the Inn so it wouldn’t be startled by the violence spread across the handful of houses, nor to allow himself to see the final carnage and weeping women. A voice called after him - angry and confused, still lingering on his words - but he was gone before they could stop him, kicking his horse into a canter, letting its heavy hooves take them from the now-cursed place.

He took to riding through one of the fields, the harvest still green yet too abundant for who was left. The loss of that night would be felt hard once autumn came and harder if the fools decided to stay. Yet he could understand why they wouldn’t want to go, even with the threat of a maniac coming back. Once, long ago, he had lived in a village just the same. Hidden from the world, where the edge of the fence seemed so far away. Despite the hardships - the starvation, the isolation, the terrors in the woods - it was home.

Just as Gorthur Gvaed was.

From a distance, the hysterical crying waned until it mixed with the soft chirping of crickets and nightjars, lost within the night. Only understandable if one knew what it was. He found himself looking to the sky, his eyes exhausted yet searching as he crossed through a small copse, the stars like dim candles lit against a still water. 

Perhaps this was the price of his existence. That no matter where a Witcher went, death was sure to follow.

The sins of Gorthur Gvaed would forever haunt the Vipers, even in the loneliest corners of the world - in backwater towns forgotten by the gods. If only death understood why they were created; The Wild Hunt was the enemy, not him. Not his Vipers. They weren’t murderers and regicidal demons. He built them with a purpose and endured his own torture for the truth. Yet as long as the other schools remained - Gezras and the Cats. Erland and the Griffins. Arnaghad and the Bears. Barmin and the Wolves - there was going to be a divide. There would always be hatred for them until the end of time.

All he could do was follow the Path, and give back for what he had been created for. To try and reason with death so it wasn’t always following his heels.

He was made to destroy the Wild Hunt.

And if it came down to it, the Grandmaster of the Cat Witchers as well.


End file.
